


Explosive Forces

by Merit



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter couldn't blame being tired for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explosive Forces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



The explosion rippled through the building, red hot and deafening and through the heat, the noise and wind, Nightingale stepping through the charred remains of the door and gave Peter a quick once over. He had a stern cast to his face, Peter remembered, even if it had felt like time had slowed down – and bloody hell, maybe it had, Peter really didn’t have a fucking clue about the extent of Nightingale’s magic – but his eyes were wild. Peter shook his head, half not knowing what he was even acknowledging, but it seemed to firm Nightingale’s resolve because he raised his staff and the world turned white.

Peter closed his eyes instinctively and gasped as the very air seemed to be sucked out of the building. A great pressure built up, like the calm before the storm and when Peter opened his eyes again Nightingale was standing in the middle of the destruction, breathing heavily. He must have felt Peter looking at him, because he suddenly turned, meeting Peter’s stare. The seconds seemed to pass like an eternity before Nightingale looked away and straightened his cuffs. Despite the fight – and Peter was probably being generous, there hadn’t been enough resistance to really merit that distinction – they were impeccable.

“Peter,” Nightingale said softly, almost sounding like his normal self, almost. There was a strain to his voice, like he had been pushed to his limits and his gaze couldn’t quite settle, always roaming, over Peter’s body. “Peter, are you alright?”

“I’m,” Peter said, struggling against his restraints and a second later Nightingale was at his side, muttering apologies underneath his breath. The rope fell away and Peter sighed with relief, stretching his hands and wrists. “I’m fine,” he said, making a note to ask Nightingale about the rope untying spell later. It seemed incredibly useful considering the past few hours.

Nightingale made a soft noise of distress and Peter stilled. Nightingale lifted up his wrist, lips thinning further, as he eyed the red marks. Nightingale cast a glance over his shoulder and then shrugged casually, as if he hadn’t practically destroyed the building. At least he had the sense to leave the structural supports alone, Peter thought, eyeing the arch above his head.

Still. “We should leave,” he said, jerking his head to the door – well door hole. Nightingale nodded and practically hustled him out. “What happened to the – ” and he stopped, because he wasn’t entirely sure what had captured him and tied him up in an abandoned railway building.

“They’re no more,” Nightingale said and for a moment Peter was startled. He hadn’t been fond of them – they had tied him after all – but he didn’t think Nightingale would resort to murder so _quickly_. But then he didn’t really know what Nightingale was capable of, not with how little he knew about Ettersberg, about how Nightingale had quashed vampires for decades. Nightingale must have read his expression because he shook his head. “They weren’t real,” he said quietly, “Scraps of souls forced into flesh, animal or human, I doubt he cared. But they’re useful,” he said, eyeing a particularly brownish patch on the ground that Peter really didn’t want to investigate, “Because they can be controlled from miles away.”

“But how?” Peter asked and Nightingale looked away. Ettersberg hung in the air and all that been twisted and tormented there. One day he really had to ask, Peter reasoned.

“It is a damn good thing most of that is locked away,” Nightingale said, sighing heavily as he ushered Peter outside of the building. When they were several yards away, he turned slightly and Peter felt it and it made the bottom of his stomach turn over, the rush of power and magic that was unmistakably Nightingale. The building collapsed in on itself, twisting and shaking as it shattered.

“British Rail isn’t going to like that,” Peter said with a weak smile.

“They have more pressing problems,” Nightingale said, his expression tender as he stared back at Peter. Then he wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist, his hand soft but firm on Peter’s body. Peter sagged into the touch, just realising how tired he was. “Home now,” Nightingale insisted. They stumbled over to the Jag, Peter almost slipping on the soggy ground.

“I don’t think the Jag is an all terrain vehicle,” he quipped, when he saw the dark muddy streaks on the car. Nightingale deposited him before walking around the car and sliding into his seat. He was wearing a grey suit today, Peter noted, pale to suit the season, it brought out the flush in his cheeks. He let his head slip on the car seat before shifting again. Jags _really_ weren’t made for sleeping. “And we should contact, we should tell someone about what happened.”

Nightingale shrugged. “It’ll only raise more questions,” he said. “They’ll find nothing conclusive there. It might only darken our reputations and that might have been the very point of this. You could have been killed earlier.”

He didn’t say it lightly. His fingers spread and then tightened as he changed gears and Peter was caught staring at the strong line of his wrist. Nightingale almost looked like he wanted to say something before he smiled affectionately and shook his head.

“You should try and rest, Peter,” he murmured, the setting sun bright behind them. And despite the discomfort, Peter felt his eyes drift shut.

The journey back stretched between Peter sleeping and opening his eyes to long familiar sights, from the curving Thames to the ancient curry place he had nipped into one night after a long night when he had still been in training. The Jag was steady under Nightingale’s touch and if he ignored London’s traffic rules _slightly_ , then Peter had his eyes closed most of the time anyway to care too much.

He only woke fully, his body suddenly wired and alert, when they were back in London, back at the Folly and Nightingale was opening the car door, slipping one hand behind Peter’s neck. It was surprisingly cool and Peter opened his eyes. His head felt surprisingly clear despite the day, despite the restless sleep on the journey home so he couldn’t blame that when he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Nightingale’s softly. The kiss ended, muted like twilight, and Peter kept his eyes closed for several moments stuck in feeling.

He opened his eyes to find Nightingale staring at him, shock in his eyes, but his lips were languid, still half open, just a trace of wetness.

“You should be resting,” Nightingale said thickly, but he licked his lips and Peter didn’t feel tired anymore. He surged upwards, taking Nightingale’s tie in his hand and tugged him forward. It was smoother this time, more give, more _take_. Then Nightingale’s tongue was rough in his mouth and Peter gasped, his head falling back. Nightingale wasted no time and was soon pressing delicate, then open mouthed kisses along Peter’s neck. “Not in the car,” Nightingale said huskily but firmly and pulled Peter quickly out of the car.

The walk – the rush – through the Folly was a blur. Sometimes they paused, Nightingale drawing Peter tight against his body, one knee pushing, spreading Peter’s legs apart but mostly it was stumbling upstairs, making a racket. He remembered kissing Nightingale against a doorframe, cursing the thousand layers the man seemed to wear, but Nightingale always shifted away, eyes dancing with humour, murmuring, “Later,” when Peter sighed with frustration.

Peter did blush hotly at one point, imagining Molly walking in on them, but she certainly had better sense to investigate these noises. Or at least Peter never saw her, which he was profoundly grateful for.

Nightingale had led him to his room and so for a moment, he just stared. Nightingale must have been occupying these rooms for _decades_. It was neat, but not impeccable, a rumpled newspaper of a side table, old photos of people probably long dead considering Nightingale was older than a century. Peter turned and noticed Nightingale still at the doorway, hovering even though this was his room.

Peter smiled broadly and started unbuttoning his shirt. “May I?” He asked, gesturing to the bed and Nightingale nodded, short and tight. He walked slowly, a swagger to his hips, liking how Nightingale’s gaze intensified with every inch that was revealed. “Shocking,” Peter murmured, only slightly mocking, gesturing to himself, running a hand down his neck, tipping his head back.

Nightingale chuckled and when he spoke, his voice was deeper and the sound of it went straight to Peter’s cock. “Peter,” and the way Nightingale said his name was like an endearment, “I lived through boarding school _and_ the swinging sixties, I’ve seen far more than you can imagine right now,” he said, placing his hand on Peter’s bare chest and spreading his fingers. The touch was electric and Peter arched into the touch. Then he pushed and Peter was falling back onto Nightingale’s bed. He never stopped looking at Nightingale.

He laughed, reaching up to drag Nightingale down as well, but Nightingale side stepped his hands and smiled.

“You’re terribly overdressed, Peter,” Nightingale said, and there was something in his voice that made Peter kick off his shoes and socks. His body was on edge with anticipation, wanting to feel Nightingale against his skin. He paused at his trousers though, tapping at the skin above. He was already half hard, and he traced the line of his cock through his trousers, sighing heavily. “Peter,” Nightingale said, a reproach and an encouragement, one hand on Peter’s wrist, the other wrapping around Peter’s cock. He squeezed, eyeing Peter intently, feeling his way over the head, fabric dulling the sensation but making Peter want it more.

“Didn’t you say I was overdressed?” Peter asked, half hating himself but feeling sure he would be justly rewarded.

Nightingale laughed and then jerked Peter’s cock thrice, in quick succession before dropping Peter completely, stepping away. Peter sucked in air through his teeth.

“As you say,” Nightingale whispered. Peter grinned.

“Like this?” He asked, popping open the button and Nightingale nodded, still dressed in that fucking prim suit as if he had any reason to complain about Peter being dressed. He drew the zip down slowly, keeping an eye on Nightingale, watching him press a hand against his thigh before drawing it away in a tight fist. Nightingale was biting his lip, the flesh darkening even in the dim light of Nightingale’s room. Peter was possibly less than graceful about getting rid of the trousers but he had yet to find a way that didn’t involve some awkwardness. It didn’t seem to bother Nightingale though.

“Enough,” Nightingale ground out, and Peter removed his hands away from his trousers, shoved off to the side, his erection already pressing against the stretched fabric of his boxers. Nightingale heaved a deep breath, licking his lips as he stared down at Peter. “You’ve been...” and he spread his body over Peter’s, his tie pin grazing up against Peter’s nipple and his shivered. They were barely touching and Nightingale was still mostly dressed, the neat lines of his suit brushing against Peter’s skin.

They kissed. Peter thrusting up into Nightingale, wrapping a hand around the back of Nightingale’s neck, bringing him lower, deeper into the embrace. They parted, breathing the same air heavily. Nightingale ground down on Peter, scaping his teeth along Peter’s jaw and neck, leaving lavish kisses in his wake.

Then Nightingale parted from Peter’s skin and exhaled, the air sending shivers of desire down Peter’s back. He arched up in Nightingale, groaning slightly in frustration when Nightingale shifted away, a bloody frustrating smile on his face.

“You’re still too overdressed, Peter,” Nightingale murmured, like he was still fucking wearing a suit though the line of the trousers was terribly ruined by the hard length of his cock.  But, well, Peter could take a hint. The pants were discarded, he spread his legs, raking his nails down his chest, across his nipples, palming his cock. He stopped though, when Nightingale pressed a finger, just one, against his hand and whispered, “Let me.”

He swallowed Peter’s cock, lips stretching delightfully and tongue employed maddeningly. Peter moaned, rocking into Nightingale’s mouth, little thrusts and Nightingale hummed his approval. He lay a hand down on Peter’s thigh, fingers digging in, before wrapping a hand around Peter’s cock, squeezing in time with the bobbing of his head.

“You’re so good,” Peter muttered, tracing Nightingale’s jaw with his finger, over his cheek, shuddering as Nightingale took him deeper, feeling it through flesh. Their gaze met, Nightingale’s pupils were blown and his face was flushed, beautiful around Peter’s cock. “Come here,” Peter whispered, bringing Nightingale up for a kiss, tasting himself on his lips, his tongue. He moaned, thrusting up against Nightingale, the fine grey wool almost too much on his heated, sensitive skin.

His hands were unsteady as they unfastened Nightingale’s trousers – they had to be complicated, didn’t they. But finally Nightingale’s cock was free and Peter sighed as their cocks met. He wrapped a hand around both of them, Nightingale shuddering above him, his eyes screwed shit, lips parted. Too tempting, Peter thought, leaning up and taking Nightingale’s lower lip between his teeth. He tugged, gentle, and Nightingale sagged into his body, breath hot against Peter’s neck when he had fallen.

He thrust twice into Peter’s hand, grunting as he came. His whole body was shaking and Peter’s hand was moving faster as he drove Nightingale onward, through the orgasm. Nightingale heaved a huge sigh, his body relaxing. He rubbed his cheek against Peter, a happy tilt to his head.

For a moment everything was still, the room smelt strongly of sex now, of Nightingale’s sex and Peter breathed in deeply. It was a jolt to his cock.

Everything was slicker now, Nightingale loose and limp on top of him. Peter wriggled underneath him, still sliding their cocks together. Nightingale kissed Peter, slow and languid now and it was a rush and release when Peter came.

Sound came back slowly; first it was only their breath, intermingled and hot. Then London, brilliant but loud London, filtering through the Folly. Nightingale slid off him, giving Peter a fond smile as pulled out a handkerchief. He dabbed at himself before tossing it aside and managing to pull another out of somewhere, this was really all too much for post sex Peter. But he cleaned up Peter and Peter closed his eyes, breathing out.

He felt Nightingale settle next to him and the man seemed to have finally shed the suit. He had rolled his shirtsleeves up and he was staring at Peter, his mouth quirked up in a fond twist. Peter blinked sleepily at him – he wasn’t much of a post sex talker – and then wrapped a hand around his wrist. He tucked Nightingale’s arm between their bodies, pulse thrumming against skin, his heartbeat mixing with Peter’s.

“We can talk later,” Peter said, because later was tomorrow.

Nightingale seemed to agree because he wrapped an arm around Peter and didn’t say anything more that night.


End file.
